


fallen from the sky with grace

by GenOfEve



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Blasphemy, Dream is a god, It’s like??? Kinda very very very loosely based on their smp characters but also really just not, Kinda, King GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Kissing, M/M, Minecraft, Religion, george accidentally praying for dream and Dream answers, george does not believe dream is a god, god I have no fucking clue what to tag this, i really have no idea what to tag this I haven’t slept in like 20 hours I’m sorry, ish????, kinda???, man I give up, mentions of demons - Freeform, no discernible religion though bc I don’t want to upset anyone!!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:02:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29051835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GenOfEve/pseuds/GenOfEve
Summary: King George is plagued by nightmares. He sneaks away from his castle to pray in the temple, for comfort, protection, love.An unusual stranger takes it upon himself to explain the cracks in George’s religion.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 99
Kudos: 581





	fallen from the sky with grace

**Author's Note:**

> wtf do you mean I’m procrastinating my other fics
> 
> this was HEAVILY inspired by technoblacle over on tumblr!!!!!!! and very loosely inspired by cool art by tumblr user cryptidastron (Dream undercut hair inspo yeehaw)
> 
> i really hope you all enjoy, i deeply apologise for the tags, i am exhausted skddkkddks

George isn’t sure what awakens him.

_ Perhaps, the strange, unusual visions from his slumber, vague witnesses of ceramic masks and the sounds of bubbling lava, the hiss of cooling magma, that left him in a patch of sweat, cooling rapidly in the midnight air. _

He shivers, despite the furs that cover him.

_ Or perhaps, the low roll of thunder, from the storm that trickles down outside, all bark, no bite, just a light shower of rain paired with sparks of lightning, and loud booming echoes.  _

He isn’t sure, and he gropes for the thick, iron nail underneath his pillow, the promise of protection brought by the metal preached to him again and again by the religion of his people, and agreed upon by himself.

_ Protection, against those that wander, slipping between worlds, living long and prospering only in suffering, in the temptation of others. _

_ Protection, against the demons he had been warned of, ever since he was a boy. _

In the darkness of the night, despite being blind, he flickers his gaze around the room.

The darkness reveals nothing.

He releases the nail, drops his guard just for a moment, and with both hands, he finds the flint and steel upon the barrel next to his bedside, and lights the candle nearby, seated in its brass chamberstick.

In the dim, orange glow of it’s controlled flame, he searches the room once more.

The light reveals nothing.

And yet still, his body sweats, his heart pounds, and his mind wanders down a frightening path.

His skin prickles with anxiety,  _ with fear, with uncertainty,  _ as the cool air settles around him, thick and strange, unsettling in nature.

He does not think he will be relaxing any time soon,  _ not with thoughts of blasphemous creatures, and things that go bump in the night, _ and a trembling sigh passes his lips.

With a caution to be silent, he slides out of his bed, out of the warm furs, and soft silken blankets, and he presses his toes to the cobblestone floor, wincing at the biting chill it leaves.

His linen sleep-pants, kept tight around his waist with a cord of rope, do nothing to protect him from the viciousness of the night-time coolness.

With a decision made, he slides his hunting boots over woollen socks, and he bends to gather up his discarded king’s robes from the floor, embracing the warm sensation of its weighty furs cloaking him, as he clasps it at his chest.

In the pockets of his linen pants, he places the iron nail. With this, he gathers up the chamberstick, and with a practiced air of silence, he descends the stairs of his chamber, and manoeuvres his way through the halls and rooms of his home.

The castle is small, and has but one entrance, guarded by one guard.

_ A guard who is currently snoozing on the job. _

Absentmindedly, as he sneaks by the snoring man who snuffles lightly at his guard post, sneaks out of the heavy wooden doors, careful not to let them squeak or slam, George wonders if perhaps he should have the guard sacked.

_ But then,  _ he supposes, _ he wouldn’t be able to do this. _

In the drizzling rain, as George heads west toward the prayer temple, the candle is extinguished, and George swears. The sodden ground squishes underneath his boots, and with his free hand, he gathers and holds the bottoms of his robes higher, so they are not stained with mud.

_ It always seems to be raining here. The king misses the sunshine. _

_ If only he could order the rain away, _ he thinks with a chuckle, as he heads into the open archway of the temple, under the cover of high ceilings and secure stone walls.

His furs are lightly dampened on the surface, and his hair glistens with the rain. 

A low candle burns on a brick slab, pooling wax onto the solid rock, and he uses its dwindling flame to relight the candle in his hand, making his way down the aisle, toward the marble altar in front of the building.

Here, he lights the three pillar candles in the back-leftmost corner of the altar, and he places his own chamberstick next to them.

Offerings to the gods sit proudly on the altar.

George observes the sprigs of lavender and thyme with a smile, and his own offering of lilac from the day before, which has begun to wilt.

_ He will need to replace it. _

Another person has offered a bottle of cherry wine, and George resists the urge to uncork the bottle, and indulge in the alcohol to calm his nerves.

_ He must resist. It is for the gods, after all. _

He bows his head, and, with only the audience of the candle flame, and the echoing sound of rain on stone, he prays.

_ He prays for what he always has. _

_ He prays for protection, for safety, both his and his people, for a solution to his nightmares.  _

_ He prays for sunshine, for a new day, something new entirely in this unending downpour. _

_ And, with the slightest hint of shame, embarrassment,  _ _ chagrin, he prays for somebody who may love him.  _ _ With a town of people who love him, it is truly unbelievable, just how lonely it is to be a king. _

_ He prays for somebody to understand the difficulty of having power, having expectations placed upon you, when one would rather be anywhere except the throne. _

_ He prays for somebody who would challenge him, and never let his royalty cause sway to them as others do. _

_ With another flicker of heat to his cheeks, he prays for somebody to keep him warm, when he shivers on the coldest nights. _

It is with this prayer, with his silent words, that the wind suddenly changes outside, and billows into the temple with  _ ferocity,  _ interrupting his quiet desires.

He hears the candle flame struggle, and as he opens his eyes, one of the three pillar candles flickers, and dies out.

With a cautious hand, he relights it with one of the others, grimacing as he drips the creamy wax onto the marble surface of the altar.

It’s as he places the candles back in place, that out of the corner of his eye, something moves.

_ No. _

_ Someone. _

Slowly, he turns, and he frowns when he doesn’t recognise the figure as one of his people.

Donned in a dull hunting cloak, the man faces the stained glass windows of the temple, bandaged hands clenched into fists at his sides as he examines the story of the gods, of the great war fought, some thousand years ago.

There’s an axe strapped to his back, and it appears to glow in the dim light of the candles.  _ A hired mercenary, perhaps? _

The man reaches up with a hand to rub at the back of his head, where his hair is cropped short into an undercut. He reaches up further, and tugs on the remaining blond hair, tied into a casual updo with a strip of leather, and chuckles.

“You  _ do _ know this is all  _ wrong, _ don’t you, George?”

George blinks, stunned, not accustomed to such informal tones,  _ such blatant casualness, _ not accustomed to hearing his name without his title honouring it.

_ “What?” _

The man gestures at the stained glass, at the story it tells.

“This. It’s all wrong, incorrect,  _ untrue,  _ whatever synonym you may prefer,” the stranger laughs again, pointing at a depiction of one of the gods, “And I’m not sure  _ who _ this guy is, but he  _ certainly _ wasn’t there.”

George bristles, disgusted at the display of such disrespect toward the religion of his people, and his spine snaps straight.

“You can’t be  _ serious—“ _

The stranger glances over his shoulder, and locks eyes with George, who falters.

His eyes are almost glowing, and George is uncertain of the colour, but he can tell that it is  _ vibrant,  _ flecked through with darker speckles of brown.

Beautiful, but  _ wrong. _

_ Inhuman. _

The man slowly turns to face George, who observes the way the bandages of his hands wind all the way up his torso, ending at the top of his throat.

“I’m  _ very _ serious. Why would I not be?” The man’s face is scarred in a few places, and they twitch with his shifting expressions, “It’s  _ my _ history, after all.”

His voice is playful, with a teasing lilt, but George can sense no indication of a lie, and it terrifies him.

But his anger at such blasphemy overrides his fear.

_ “Your _ history?” He splutters, enraged, “The history of  _ my _ people is  _ hundreds and hundreds  _ of years long, and that war was—“

“A little over fifteen-hundred years ago,” the stranger tilts his head, flexes his bandaged fingers, “But who’s counting?”

He smirks, and something in George  _ crawls. _

“I think—“  _ oh, the shame as his voice shakes, a king’s voice breaking in fear,  _ “That you should be leaving.”

“Oh? Is that an  _ order,”  _ his smirk widens,  _ “Your majesty?” _

The way his voice dips when he states George’s title,  _ so matter-of-factly,  _ is positively  _ sultry,  _ and George resists the urge to shudder under this man’s gaze.

He shoulders on.

“I don’t take kindly to people  _ blaspheming  _ against—“

“Is it really  _ blasphemy  _ if none of it is true?”

Something about the way this man speaks, too wise for somebody who looks so young, too experienced for once so naive, it sits  _ wrong. _

George finds himself with his hands dipped into his pockets, fingering the iron nail with a swallow.

“Who  _ are  _ you?” He demands, refuses to let his voice tremble.

“Dream.”

_ Dream? What kind of a name—? _

Something unnatural uncurls in the air, whispers at George, pulls at his prickled skin, presses at his bare chest underneath his robes, leaving him shivering.

_ He has another question. _

_ “...What _ are you?”

The stranger, Dream, quirks the corner of his lip impossibly higher.

“A  _ god.” _

George cannot disguise the frightened shudder that drums along his vertebrate now. And yet, he maintains his voice.

“You are  _ no _ god of mine.”

“And what a  _ shame _ that is,  _ your highness,”  _ Dream bows, dramatic and taunting, “For you are very much  _ my king.” _

Dream’s smirk splits into a grin, and George catches sight of teeth, just a  _ little _ too pointed, a detail almost invisible to somebody not paying attention.

_ The iron nail is cool at his fingertips. _

“You’re testing me.”

Dream’s response is a questioning hum. George continues, running his thumb over the point of the nail, hidden in his pocket.

“You’re no  _ god,”  _ He spits, trembling, “You’re some kind of— of  _ demon, _ sent to  _ tempt me,  _ to test my faith.”

Dream hums once more at that, deep in thought as he thumbs a scar that runs vertically down the left side of his mouth, through his lips.

“I suppose some have called me that before.”

He steps toward the altar, toward George, who twitches, but remains steady, and watches in horror as Dream reaches out with wide hands, and uncorks the cherry wine, taking a swig.

“Put that  _ back,” _ he hisses, “It’s for the  _ gods!” _

“I suppose it’s a good thing I  _ am _ a  _ god _ then, eh, your highness?”

He winks, swigs once more, and the blood-red liquid dribbles from the corner of his closed-lip smile, from the scarred side of his mouth.

George blinks, stunned, as he realises that one side of Dream’s face is slightly slackened, the facial nerves clearly damaged by whatever had caused the purpling scar.

Dream wipes the mess with his thumb, and licks it clean.

George looks anywhere but.

_ His faith is truly being tested. _

“What kind of a god is  _ flawed?”  _ George argues, referencing the wounds, turning his nose up at the  _ mortality _ of it all.

Dream’s smirk does not falter.

“The  _ real _ kind.”  


George despises the way that he can feel his interest stirring,  _ the curious nature of a human peeking out its ugly head, _ as he can feel the urge to ask questions, to beg for Dream to  _ prove _ it somehow, to beg him to tell him  _ everything.  _

_ To abandon his faith, so quickly, it makes him feel ill. _

But he hates even more, as his curious nature delves  _ elsewhere,  _ asking George to wonder just  _ what _ Dream’s scars might feel like under his  _ tongue, _ or how that uneven mouth would  _ feel,  _ pressing hungry kisses to his own full lips.

Dream is  _ uncomfortably _ beautiful,  _ uncomfortably _ interesting,  _ uncomfortably _ everything, and George  _ despises _ him for it.

“Perhaps, I shall prove it to you,” Dream murmurs, his hushed tone causing his s’s to lilt, the barest hint of a lisp, “Your majesty.”

Dream’s gaze flicks to the fidgeting hand in George’s pocket.

“What do you have there, hm?”

George  _ panics. _

His  _ dislike _ dissolves into  _ terror,  _ and in a swift gesture, he bares the iron nail, holding it away from himself, shaking hands pointing the metal in Dream’s direction, holding it high so he can see.

_ “Stay back!” _

Dream’s strange eyes  _ widen. _

They  _ blink. _

And then he  _ laughs.  _

The man  _ wheezes,  _ as he throws his head back, positively  _ guffawing. _ George can feel the way his eyebrows have knitted themselves together, in confusion,  _ in concern. _

His heart  _ clenches _ as Dream steps forward, and angles his face downward.

The side of the iron nail  _ presses _ against a scar that runs diagonal along Dream’s cheek, thicker than the one that lines his mouth, older, more pale.

_ Nothing happens. _

George can feel tears welling in his eyes as fear strikes him.

_ Iron for protection. They always said iron for protection, why isn’t it— _

“It doesn’t work like  _ that,”  _ Dream chuckles, and George wonders if he can read minds, “We’re still weak to iron, sure. But more so in the form of axes, and swords. Diamond is even better. Netherite is what you  _ really  _ want.”

His gaze flicks to the nail, pressed snugly to his skin, along with the tips of George’s fingers that clutch it, and George realises just how  _ warm  _ Dream’s skin is in the chilly air.

“But,” Dream continues, “I guess you could probably do  _ some  _ damage with that nail. If you really wanted to.”

_ What? _

“Take an eye out, perhaps. Come on, your majesty.  _ Hurt me.” _

George is frozen, and he stares at the connection of the iron with Dream’s skin, his doubts in his faith continuing to grow.

“Oh, but you don’t  _ want _ to hurt me,  _ do you,  _ George?”

His voice is impossibly low, almost a whisper.

Dream’s tongue parts his lips, and he licks at the cold iron, at where George’s fingers grip the nail.

His tongue is  _ hot,  _ and George can’t help but gasp, stepping backward in a shock.

The nail drops between them, and the noise echoes from the stony floor, bouncing in the temple.

Dream’s grin only seems to  _ widen. _

He follows George’s backtracking,  _ stalks him, _ follows him all the way to the  _ wall,  _ until George is backed into a corner, the thick fur of his robe shielding him from the cold of the stone walls, pressed against his shoulder blades.

His head gives a dull  _ thump _ as he leans back, angles his head back to look up at Dream, and hits the wall.

“Leave me alone—“ George winces at the weakness of his own argument, at the throbbing pain in the back of his skull, tries again, “Leave me  _ alone!” _

Dream’s breath washes over George’s face, scented with the cherry wine he still grips in one hand, and he is  _ impossibly  _ close, close enough for George to see the freckles that scatter his bronze skin, freckles that  _ match one of their constellations.  
_

“You know what’s  _ great _ about being a  _ god?”  _ Dream asks, hushed, “I know  _ everything.  _ I know just  _ how much  _ you  _ don’t  _ want me to leave you alone. So why don’t you let me  _ stay,  _ hm?”

Dream’s free hand traces the underside of George’s jaw, cups it gently, the cloth of his bandages soft, his exposed fingertips almost sickeningly warm.

“Let me  _ corrupt _ you, your majesty. Let me expand your mind,” he smiles that sultry lopsided grin, “I  _ know _ that you  _ want me to.” _

_ Oh god, he does. _

His thumb presses against George’s bottom lip, and George parts them, willingly, feeling his cheeks flush with shame, but also with  _ want. _

“All you have to do,” he whispers, “Is say  _ yes.” _

George  _ wants to. _

_ But he hesitates, uncertain, one more question gracing his curious tongue. _

“If you are  _ truly _ a god,” George mumbles against Dream’s thumb, “Why have you come  _ here?  _ Why have you come to  _ me?” _

Dream’s sultry grin fades, melts into something soft, something gentle in the dim candlelight that silhouettes them both.

Dream is a supposed god, and yet, he appears _awestruck_ as he traces George’s bottom lip once more.

“Because you’ve been praying for  _ me, _ your majesty. And it’s been so long since anyone has.”

_ Protection. _

_ Sunshine. _

_ Love. _

_ Understanding. _

_ Challenge. _

_ Warmth. _

**_Oh._ **

“It’s only natural that I would wish to answer,” Dream’s voice is light, yet teasing, fond, yet playful, “Especially, to an order from a king such as yourself.”

The hand that cups his face slips lower, caresses the bare chest beneath George’s robes, burning fingertips and thin material circling lightly at his ribs.

George’s  _ yes _ is echoed in a burning kiss, a stark contrast to the sensation of his head still pressed against cool stone walls, as he surges upward, giving in to the temptation.

In the wee hours of the morning, as a forgotten god deems him worthy of a kiss, he no longer hears the rain outside.

**Author's Note:**

> i really hope you guys enjoyed this one!!!!! as always i’m genofeve on tumblr (and rarely, gen_ofeve on Twitter!!) and i adore u all <3
> 
> songs for inspo writing this fic may include but r not limited to:  
> kishi bashi - i am the antichrist to you (title track!!)  
> dope lemon - stonecutters  
> blue foundation - eyes on fire (fuck u the twilight soundtrack bangs)  
> hozier - take me to church


End file.
